


Firsts

by Ladycat



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat





	Firsts

Sixteen year olds shouldn't be virgins. It's like some unwritten rule, except this time Harry isn't left out because he's muggle-raised. No, this time it's because he's _Harry_. He watches as his housemates pair up, different locks trying different keys until Harry's dizzy from keeping up with the gossip. Luna with a Ravenclaw, Neville with _Padma_, of all the amazing things. Hermione and Justin, stunning everyone who assumed both would turn out gay. Seamus and Dean _are_ gay, and have been going at it since fifth year, not caring who's around to hear them. Harry doesn't know a single sixth or seventh year that hasn't had sex at least once—and quite a few of the fifth years, too. Ron is apoplectic when he finds out Ginny is most certainly no longer a virgin and that she's had more partners than Ron has. Harry privately thinks it's the number that bothers Ron most, but says nothing. He's not sure Ron can be _that_ red for _that_ long without damaging himself. Besides, he already has far too much ammunition to tease his friend, as Ron continues to chase after his first, Daphne Greengrass.

It's not just the concept of sex that intrigues Harry, either. It's the connection. The willingness to be that close to someone and have them be just as close to Harry. Touching is something that's still awkward for a boy who grew up fearing most of the physical contact he received. He doesn't know how to allow it, really, and he thinks that's probably why every single one of his friends has had more than one pathetic attempt at a kiss. Not a proper snog, just a kiss. One that Harry knows, in retrospect, was more about Cho's attempts to deal with Cedric's death than it did him.

Also, he's fairly certain he's gay.

Sometimes Harry wanders the halls, just thinking about it—not the gay parts, he's pretty clear on that. The touching parts. Actually allowing someone to be so close that their breath will warm Harry's skin, their eyelashes tickling, sweat dripping from one body to another. It sounds disgusting, frankly, but he's willing to give it a go. Maybe. Possibly. Someday. Hermione calls him a late bloomer and tells him not to worry about it as she leaves her precious school books alone for the evening and disappears off with Justin. It's those nights that Harry thinks the deepest about relationships and boys and sex, trying to sort through vague memories of muggle television programs and the snickering whispers of boys who go to a boarding school.

Tonight is the worst yet. All sixth and seventh year students have unofficially declared it Date Night and Harry is forced to the deepest and dustiest of hallways to avoid accidentally disturbing a busy couple. It's humiliating, really. Everyone knows that Harry Potter's been unable to pull a single girl (or boy). There's something wrong with him, that Potter, he imagines they whisper. He doesn't hear the sympathetic way the girls coo at him, wizarding girls as enamored with dark, tortured figures of angst the same way muggle girls are. He only hears their giggles and thinks them snickers. And the boys ...

The boys are worst yet. Because looking at them makes his stomach twist painfully while something hot and fizzy like the soda pop he's not had in years runs through him. Especially one boy, but Harry doesn't like to think about that. Or at least he _tries_ not to think about it. Particularly when he wakes up sticky ...

"There you are."

For a moment, Harry is certain he's dreaming. It looks like ... it certainly _sounds_ like ...

But then his arm is grabbed, his entire body yanked forward, and his brain goes completely blank as lips brush against his own. "I've been waiting here for _weeks_, Potter. It's thoroughly inconsiderate of you, and frankly pathetic of me. Waiting like some fifth year Hufflepuff. My reputation will be utterly ruined if it gets out. Fortunately, everyone thinks I'm off to a different assignation every time, so you're safe for now. Because if this gets out, Potter, you cannot even _begin_ to comprehend how miserable I'll make your life."

Harry hears the words, though their meanings escape him. His lips are tingling, warm and slightly damp where another's touched him—and then they're back again, erasing the lingering threat in the air as they draw Harry into a dance, trading caresses for licks, then licks for the slow and gradual discovery of tasting someone's mouth. Harry counts teeth and tickles a palate that tastes of strawberries and cream, before his tongue is tangled with his partners into a new and different kind of dance. There's something slow and methodical about the kiss, but Harry doesn't mind that. He is snogging someone and it is _brilliant_.

He struggles to breathe as he kisses, and while he's not horrible at it, eventually he has to break free to gulp in air. Draco smiles at him, only the tiniest hint of a smirk visible in the expression, and takes his hand. "Come on, Potter," he says, tugging Harry into a room that's suddenly not empty but looks like a condensed version of the dorm rooms. Featuring just one familiar four-poster, decked out in thick green velvet. "Time for bed."

It's very possible he's dreaming, Harry thinks. Or that he's fallen and smacked his head and is bleeding profusely somewhere. Or that it's a spell. But Draco has already unbuttoned his robe, the thick wool pooling at his feet, and Harry isn't certain he _cares_. He feels none of the nervous dismay and confusion that permeated his interactions with Cho, nor the burning energy that is fear masquerading as willingness, the way it had with Ernie. Instead there is only want and a patient sort of readiness, like a fire banked but ready to roar into life at any moment, as Draco undresses first Harry and then himself.

Boarding school children will see each other naked. It's a fact of life. But Harry has never seen someone _this_ naked, artlessly posing while Harry gawks. Draco is _beautiful_. His skin is as pale as milk, but richer, with golden highlights that are probably due to the flickering torchlight Harry doesn't care about. He is slim, yes, but not too thin the way Ron was for years until he finally stopped growing. This is proportional slimness, from the surprisingly broad shoulders, holding arms that are long and dusted with hair that shines, muscled but not overwhelmingly so. His torso is not fully defined yet, but Harry can see the bumps and dents that will turn into perfectly sculpted muscles when Draco is just a little bit older and fully grown into his own weight.

Harry feels scrawny and gawky, a puppy not yet grown, against such beauty—at least until he sees Draco's eyes: the hungry way they stare at him, taking in every detail from unruly mop of black hair to feet that were still too big for his body and still wanting more. "Unbelieavable, Potter. This is what you hide under those robes?"

He blinks, surprised. "Er?"

"You've got another six inches to grow, at least, before you're done." Draco—it's always been Draco, like this, never Malfoy—drags his fingers down Harry's hip, then runs them back up over a quivering belly. "You'll be taller than me, when you finish. Heavier, too. You always were on the stocky side."

Any other moment, and the words would be an insult. Here, Harry is too busy trying not to gasp to take umbrage. "Mm," he says, and hopes it isn't a moan when carefully filed nails brush over his nipple. Lightning flares through his body, little hairs standing on end while Draco maps his chest and torso thoroughly. "I doubt it."

"Of course you would. If I said the sun was green, you'd doubt it. Fortunately, I like that sort of thing, and it'll only take me another year to prove that I am right and you, as always, are wrong. I intend to gloat."

Harry is having a hard time concentrating on anything because Draco's cock is hardening, the flesh startlingly pink against curls so blond they're almost white. He stares at it, entranced, as a rosy head peaks out from unfurling foreskin. His mouth waters and he tries to remember what Dean had said about giving blow jobs. He's not entirely sure why he thinks that's what's coming next, but he is—so it's a bit of a shock when Draco takes his hand, pulling him onto the bed and then pushing him onto his back.

Draco kisses away any words Harry might dare to say before turning his attention to the skin of Harry's neck. "I ought to start slowly," he says, alternating powerful suction that stings like a bite before soothing the tortured skin with kisses. "You're the last remaining virgin of sixth year, and like any rare wine, you're meant to be savored and treasured, brought out for special occasions only."

Harry's hands are tangled up in blankets that are not the normal slightly scratchy weave of a Hogwarts bed. These blankets are too soft for that, offering no traction at all as Harry tries to grab at them. He's certain he'll bear a mark on his neck tomorrow by the time Draco finishes, switching his attention to kissing every inch of Harry's chest. He's panting like a dragon by now, each breath so hot it scalds _him_ as he exhales, everything focused on the blond who is straddling him. "I think I hear a 'but'," he manages.

"Is that a pun?" Draco sits up, frowning, fingers still playing over Harry's skin. "That had better not be a pun, Potter. You aren't nearly intelligent to do so, and anyway, it's in very poor taste."

Harry moans, helpless as his nipples are twisted. He'd heard Seamus enthusiastically explaining how good it felt, but this is the first time Harry understands the delicious mixture of almost-pain and pleasure it creates.

"No, I suppose you weren't attempting a pun. Very good, I forgive you. And yes, I was heading for a qualifying statement. I _should_ be taking this slowly. But I don't want to go slowly, and you have no idea what you want, so we're going to defer to my wants first. I'll go slow the second time."

Harry's mind completely shorts out because the promise of _the second time_ is more than he can comprehend. Draco doesn't seem to mind as he makes his way down to Harry's hips and spends a significant amount of time biting and then laving the bite marks right over the bone. How Draco knows that _that_ is going to be one of Harry's elusive hot-spots, Harry doesn't know and hasn't enough mental ability to care about. His body is a maelstrom of want and need, pulsing in time with Draco's ministrations: inhale, Draco's teeth nipping his flesh until sharp, silver-gilt pain making his eyes squeeze tight; exhale as Draco licks over the indentations, sucking lightly until only a red mark remains.

He moans, dismayed, when Draco finally leaves his hips alone, body slipping off of Harry's to settle on the bed between Harry's legs. He moans again at the loss of such heavy warmth, but Draco is expecting this and has the perfect distraction.

His mouth on Harry's cock.

His glasses are slipping down his nose, sweat smoothing the path as Harry's head twists back and forth. Later, when this is over, he will not remember the feel of Draco's tongue as it traces the heavy vein from root to tip, or the way Draco delicately teases the slit of his cock, sucking first the head, and then half of Harry's shaft into his mouth. All he will remember is the incredible pressure and heat of a mouth suckling gently at his cock for perhaps two or three minutes, knowing that all he needs is one more suck, or lick—

Draco releases him, chuckling. "I told you, Potter. I'll go slow the next time. For now ... " Draco leans forward, pushing up Harry's glasses and grabbing something from the bedside table. 'Something' turns out to be a bottle containing a clear, syrupy liquid that Draco dumps all over his fingers.

Oh god, Harry thinks. Oh god. But before he can voice the deep moan of anticipation, Draco is reaching behind _himself_, eyes closing so that only a hint of silver glitters down at Harry, his legs widening and his cock bouncing against his belly as his hips start to move, one hand resting on Harry's thigh for balance.

Harry stops breathing.

"Mm, no," Draco teases as he straddles Harry's hips again. Sweat mingles wherever their skins touch and distantly, Harry thinks that he has never felt anything better. "I don't think blue is your color. Green, however, goes very nicely with your complexion. Add some silver and you'll be smashing."

Harry has heard rumors that Malfoy is gay. He's never just understood _how_ gay until now. He wants to grin and tease back, to find some of the nonchalance Draco exudes even with his fingers in his own arse, but he cannot. Because Draco is gripping the base of Harry's cock and slowly, agonizingly slowly, lowering himself down until his buttocks rest in the cradle of Harry's hips.

_Hot_ and _tight_ and not wet, but _slick_, grasping at him in a rhythm he can't predict or anticipate because Harry is gone, lost in the sensation of Draco flexing around him, grinning at him, while his eyes shine with the same kind of awe and wonder he knows is visible in his own features. It's not a reflection, but a connection, deep and unyielding, locking them together as they both tremble, panting too hard to demand movement and something within Harry rearranges itself into a completely new configuration. The earth has not moved, nor the heavens opened up and hummed a celestial chorus—they aren't even _finished_ yet. But Harry knows that from this moment onward he will never, ever be the same, and neither will Draco. They each will have bits of the other, and nothing can take it from them. Ever.

Draco starts to move.

Harry unclamps clenched muscles by degrees, sinking back into the mattress' embrace while Draco eases himself up and then down again. Instinct is clamoring behind his eyes, telling him that he must do _this_ and he must do it now, give in the heated pull as Draco moves over him. Harry fights it, drinking in the sight of a body that moves like silk on water, each movement flowing smoothly into the next, never jerky or awkward. Draco is as graceful as a ballerina above him and later, when Harry has the stamina, he promises himself that he will watch Draco with the devotion his grace deserves.

Spell or concussion or dream—Harry _will_ have his next time. Because this time is too much, the sensations too overwhelming. Instinct takes over and he slams himself up as Draco moves downward, the slap of skin barely audible over their panting. They fuck, almost _rutting_ in desperation, giving in to sixteen year old hormones and a need that has gone denied since before they had hormones to give in to. Their eyes stay locked, fingers threading and pressing palms together in a way both will claim was to give leverage, not aid connection, as they move together.

Draco's eyes close first, breathy moans escaping as he tilts his head back the long column of his throat exposed to the flickering shadow-men that tell a story Harry does not know how to read, yet. Harry moans, wanting more, and almost comes when he receives it: Draco freeing one hand to wrap around his own cock. It's an exquisite sight, Draco debauched and as beautiful as the greek statues he saw once, as a child, all clean lines and touchable skin. He rides Harry faster, grunting with each pull of his cock. It's so beautiful that Harry has to close his eyes, biting his lip as he swallows back a scream of completion, pushing hard into Draco's body moments before something splatters against his stomach, instantly cooling against his feverish skin.

Their bodies collapse.

It's a long time before Harry stops panting, longer still before Draco relaxes. Harry is holding him, arms wrapping around a sweaty body without conscious command. Breath tickles his throat, eyelashes tickling his shoulder every time Draco blinks, and they are starting to stick together as they cool off.

It's disgusting. And wonderful.

"That ought to take the edge off," Draco tells him after another few moments of basking. He sounds so much like a cat with whiskers that drip cream that Harry has to laugh. "Hm?"

He's never heard Draco make that humming, musing sound before, but he wants to again. "Nothing," he says, vicarious experience prompting him to turn his head and catch Draco's mouth into a kiss. It's a very long kiss, too wet and just a bit too sloppy, but Harry is too contended to care. Everything feels good right now and idly, he thinks of returning to the common room and giving everyone hugs—just to see if he can do it without flinching.

If this doesn't turn out to be a concussion-dream, of course.

"I," Draco says lazily, "am a positively _smashing_ teacher. I should charge. I'd become the richest wizard in Britain, overnight."

"You are the—mmph!" When Draco finally releases him, Harry has no idea what he'd been about to say. Something about riches, and possibly that Harry has no intention of sharing his new-found prize with _anyone_. Or maybe it was something else entirely different. Harry doesn't remember, because Draco is licking his lips, tasting how they mix together. Harry is totally at peace for the first time he can remember and he contemplates never moving again. Ever. Even when Draco shifts and the now-tacky stuff between them pulls. "Ow."

"Yes, that is one of the draw backs of gay sex. Just be glad there's no wet spot to argue over. Now, then. This can go one of two directions, Potter. The first is that you don't ask any useless questions, we sleep a bit, and then I treat you to the slow version so you can actually remember something as you walk around tomorrow, looking as if you're stoned out of your mind. Rather like you are now."

Harry doesn't bother modulating his goofy grin.

"Prat. That was a hint. Please don't ask me to be less subtle, as it involves leather and large red welts."

That doesn't sound too awful, actually, but he best not mention that. Continuing to grin, Harry steals another kiss—unsurprised when Draco's mouth is soft and pliant against his own, no matter how scathing his previous tone. "I can't believe I was just inside you. You're the pushiest, most demanding bottom in the history of bottoms."

The bed is too warm and comfortable for Draco to leave, but he clearly wants to flounce off in a huff. Harry's seen those before, though, and with sex-colored glasses the possibility is intriguing. Especially if Draco's naked. But Draco only scowls and says, "And how does a virgin know anything about tops or bottoms, hm?"

It takes several seconds of concentration, but Harry eventually convinces his body to roll until he is stretched out above Draco, forearms bracketing Draco's head. Their toes immediately start rubbing against each other, Draco's legs widening to let Harry settle between them—perfect fit. "A virgin whose friends aren't, you great git. What's option two?"

"Two?" The sense of awe was back in Draco's eyes, softening the grey until it was the same shade as clouds when they are heavy with rain they cannot yet release. "Oh, yes. That involves you asking all sorts of questions I will refuse to answer and will probably result in one of us getting angry and we'll start hexing each other for days, insulting each other's friends until the sexual tension becomes unbearable and you beg me to shag you and offer your most flattering apologies to sweeten the deal."

"This isn't a dream, is it?"

Draco's eyelashes are very long. "What?"

"Hm. Dream-you always admits to being a dream and he doesn't threaten my friends. I'm not lying somewhere, bleeding from a head wound?"

"Do you _want_ to be?" Draco snarls at him, though his eyes are still stuck on _dream-me_. He's too proud to ask about it, though, and Harry has to kiss him for that.

"Spell?" he asks when they separate.

Draco's breathless, now, and squirming slightly under his weight. "The only spells to do something like this involve variations of Imperius, something you are disgustingly good at fighting against, which meant I couldn't use them and was forced to _wait_ like some lovesick school girl. And you're heavy, Potter. Shag, or move."

The question is more serious than that. There are layers to Draco he's always imagined but never seen, and watching each one uncover itself to Harry's eyes is like getting eleven years worth of presents, one more with each blink. He has hundreds of questions seething in his mind, but he's not entirely sure he wants the answers. Later, when his friends know just by looking at him that he's finally had sex—because of course they will—and start demanding those answers will be the best time to worry about them. For now, Harry wants to ask only one thing.

"Now, don't run out in a huff," he cautions, grinning until Draco reluctantly smiles back. "Because this is a question." The smile vanishes. It's almost adorable. "Prat. The question is: _can we snog, instead of sleep_?"

Harry smiles his most winsome smile, and waits for his answer.


End file.
